By Christopher Isherwood 8 страница. to impress us. He told Jim, 'You Yanks are living in a world of fantasy!' But

to impress us. He told Jim, 'You Yanks are living in a world of fantasy!' But

then he got much more friendly, and when we were walking back to the inn

where we were staying, absolutely plastered by this time, Rex and I

discovered something in common• we both knew Newbolt's Vitae Lampada

by heart, we'd learnt it at school. So of course we began roaring out, 'Play

up, play up, and play the game!' And when we got to the second verse, about

the sands of the desert being sodden red, I said, 'The colonel's jammed and

the Gatling's dead,' and Rex thought that was the joke of the year, and Jim

sat right down on the road, and buried his lace in his hands and uttered a

terrible groan--"

 

"You mean, he wasn't enjoying himself?"

 

"Jim not enjoying himself? He was having the ball of his life! For a

while I thought I'd never get him out of. England again. And, you know, he

fell wildly in love with that pub? The rest of the house is very attractive, I

must admit. There's an upstairs sitting loom which you could really make

something out of. And quite a big garden. Jim wanted us to buy it and five

there, and run it together."

 

"What a marvelous idea! Oh, what a shame you couldn't have!"

 

"Actually, it wouldn't have been utterly impossible. We made some

inquiries. I think we could have persuaded them to sell. And no doubt Jim

would have picked up pub-running, the way he did everything else. Of

 

course, there'd have been an awful lot of red tape, and permits, and stuff....

Oh yes, we talked about it.

 

We even used to say we'd go back this year and look into the whole

thing some more--"

 

"Do you think--I mean, if Jim--would you really have bought it and

settled down there?"

 

"Oh, who knows? We were always making plans like that. We hardly

ever told other people about them, even you. Maybe that was because we

knew in our hearts they were crazy. But then again, we did do some crazy

things, didn't we? Well, we'll never know, now.... Charlotte, dear, we are

both in need of a drink."

 

HE is suddenly aware of Charlotte saying, "I suppose, for a man, it is

different...."

 

(What's different? Can he have dozed off for a couple of seconds?

George shakes himself awake.)

 

"... You know, I used to think that about Buddy? He could have lived

anywhere. He could have traveled hundreds of miles across nowhere and

then suddenly just pitched his tent and called it somewhere, and it would

have been somewhere, simply because he said so. After all, I mean, isn't that

what the pioneers all did in this country, not so long ago? It must have been

in Buddy's blood--though it certainly can't be any longer. Debbie would

never put up with that sort of thing. No, Geo, cross my heart, I am honestly

not being bitchy! I wouldn't have put up with it either, in the long run.

Women are like that--we've simply got to hang on to our roots. We can be

transplanted, yes--but it has to be done by a man, and when he's done it, he

has to stay with us and wither--I mean water--I mean, the new roots wither if

they aren't watered...." Her voice has thickened. Now she gives her head an

abrupt shake, just as George did a few moments ago. "Am I making any

sense at all?"

 

"Yes, Charley. Aren't you trying to tell me you've decided to go

back?"

 

"You mean, go back home?"

 

"Are you sure it is home, still?"

 

"Oh dear--I'm not sure of anything--but--now Fred doesn't need me

any more--will you tell me, Geo, what am I doing here?"

 

"You've got a lot of friends."

 

 

"Certainly I have. Friends. And they're real dears. The Peabodys and

the Garfeins, especially, and Jerry and Flora, and I am very fond of Myrna

Custer. But none of them need me. There isn't anyone who'd make me feel

guilty about leaving them.... Now, Geo, be absolutely honest--is there

anyone, anyone at all, I ought to feel guilty about leaving behind?"

 

There's me. No, he refuses to say it. Such flirting is unworthy of them,

even when drunk. "Feeling guilty's no reason for staying or going," he tells

her, firmly but kindly. "The point is, do you want to go? If you want to go,

you should go. Never mind anybody else."

 

Charlotte nods sadly. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

 

GEORGE goes into the kitchen, fixes another round. (They seem to be

drinking up much faster, now. This one really should be the last.) When he

comes out again, she's sitting with her hands clasped, gazing in front of her.

"I think I shall go back, Geo. I dread it--. but I'm beginning to think I really

shall."

 

"Why do you dread it?"

 

"In a way, I dread it. There's Nan, for one thing."

 

"You wouldn't have to live with her, would you?"

 

"I wouldn't have to. But I would. I'm sure I would."

 

"But, Charley--I've always had the impression that you loathe each

other."

 

"Not exactly loathe. Anyhow, in a family, that's not really what

matters. I mean, it can be beside the point. That's hard to explain to you,

Geo, because you never had any family, did you, after you were quite

young? No, I wouldn't say loathe. Though, of course, when I first got to

know Buddy--when she found out we were sleeping together, that is--Nan

did rather hate me. I mean, she hated my luck. Of course, in those days,

Buddy was a dreamboat. Any sister might have felt jealous. But that wasn't

the biggest part of it. What she really minded was that Buddy was a G. I. and

that he was going to take me back to live in the States when we were

married. Nan simply longed to come over here, you see--so many girls did,

after wartime England and the shortages and everything--but she'd have died

rather than admit it. She felt she was being disloyal to England even to want

to come. I do believe she'd have far sooner admitted to being jealous of me

with Buddy! Isn't that a laugh?"

 

"She knows you and Buddy have split up, of course?"

 

 

"Oh yes, I had to tell her at once, right after it happened. Otherwise,

I'd have been so afraid she'd find out for herself, in some uncanny way, and

that would have been too shaming. So I wrote to her about it, and she wrote

back, such a beastly, quietly triumphing letter, saying, Now I suppose you'll

have to come back here--back to the country you deserted; that was what she

implied. So of course I flew right off the handle--you know me/--and

answered saying I was blissfully happy here, and that never never would I

set foot on her dreary little island again. Oh, and then--I've never told you

any of this, because it embarrassed me so--after I wrote that letter, I felt most

terribly guilty, so I started sending her things: you know, delicatessen from

those luxury shops in Beverly Hills, all sorts of cheeses and things in bottles

and jars. As a matter of fact, living in this so-called land of plenty, I could

hardly afford them! And I was such an utter idiot, I didn't once stop to think

how tactless I was being! Actually, I was playing right into Nan's hands. I

mean, she let me go on sending all this stuff for a while--which she ate, I

presume--and then really torpedoed me. Asked hadn't we heard in America

that the war had been over quite some time, and that Bundles for Britain

were out of date?"

 

"Charming creature!"

 

"No, Geo--underneath all that, Nan really loves me. It's just she wants

me to see things her way. You know, she's two years older; that meant a lot

when we were children. I've always thought of her as being sort of like a

road--I mean, she leads somewhere. With her, I'll never lose my way. Do

you know what I'm trying to say?"

 

"No."

 

"Well, never mind. There's another thing about going back home--it's

the past; and that's all tied up with Nan, too. Sort of going back to the place

where I turned off the road, do you see?"

 

"No. I don't see."

 

"But, Geo--the past! Surely you can't pretend you don't know what I

mean by that?"

 

"The past is just something that's over."

 

"Oh really--how can you be so tiresome!"

 

"No, Charley, I mean it. The past is over. People make believe that it

isn't, and they show you things in museums. But that's not the past. You

won't find the past in England. Or anywhere else, for that matter."

 

"Oh, you're tiresome!"

 

"Listen, why not just go back there on a visit? See Nan if you want to.

But, for Christ's sake, don't commit yourself."

 

"No--if I go back at all, I've got to go back for good."

 

 

"Why?"

 

"I can't stand any more indecision. I've got to burn my boats, this time.

I thought I'd done that when I came over here with Buddy. But, this time,

I've got to--"

 

"Oh, for Christ's sake!"

 

"I know I'll find it all changed. I know there'll be a lot of things I'll

hate. I know I'll miss all these supermarkets and labor-savers and

conveniences. Probably I'll keep catching one cold after another, after living

in this climate. And I expect you're quite right--I shall be miserable, living

with Nan. I can't help any of that. At least, when I'm there, I shall know

where I am."

 

"Never in my born days have I heard such utter drooling masochism!"

 

"Oh yes, I know it sounds like that. And perhaps it is! Do you suppose

masochism's our way of being patriotic? Or do I mean that the other way

round? What fun! Darling, shouldn't we have another tiny drink? Let's drink

to the masochism of Old England!"

 

"I don't think so, darling. Time for our beds."

 

"Geo--you're leaving!"

 

"I must, Charley."

 

"But when shall I see you?"

 

"Very soon. That is, unless you're taking off for England right away."

 

"Oh, don't tease me! You know perfectly well I'm not! It'd take me

ages just to get ready. Perhaps I never will go at all. How could I ever face

all that packing and the saying goodbye, and the effort? No--perhaps I never

will--"

 

"We'll talk more about it. A lot more.... Good night, Charley dear."

 

She rises as he bends forward to kiss her. They bump awkwardly and

very nearly topple over and roll on the floor. He steadies her, unsteadily.

 

"I should hate so to leave you, Geo."

 

"Then don't."

 

"The way you say that! I don't believe you care if I go or if I stay."

 

"Of course I care!"

 

"Truly?"

 

"Truly!"

 

"Geo?"

 

"Yes, Charley?"

 

"I don't think Jim would want me to leave you here alone."

 

"Then don't leave me."

 

 

"No--I'm dead serious! You remember when you and I drove up to

San Francisco? In September, it must have been, last year, just after you got

back from England--"

 

"Yes."

 

"Jim couldn't come up with us that day. I forget why. He flew up the

next day and joined us. Well, anyhow, just as you and I were getting into the

car, Jim said something to me. Something I've never forgotten.... Did I ever

tell you this?"

 

"I don't believe so." (She has told him at least six times; always when

very drunk.)

 

"He said to me, You two take care of each other."

 

"He did?"

 

"Yes he did. Those were his exact words. And, Geo, I believe he

didn't just mean take care. He meant something more--"

 

"What did he mean?"

 

"That was less than two months, wasn't it, before he left for Ohio. I

believe he said take care, because he knew--"

 

Swaying a little, she regards him earnestly but dimly, as though she

were peering up at him, fishlike, through all the liquor she has drunk. "Do

you believe that, Geo?"

 

"How can we tell what he knew, Charley? As for our taking care of

each other, we can be certain he'd have wanted us to do that." George puts

his hands on her shoulders. "So now let's both tell each other to get some

sleep, shall we?"

 

"No, wait--" She's like a child, stalling off bedtime with questions.

"Do you suppose that pub is still for sale?"

 

"I expect so. That's an idea! Why don't we buy it, Charley? What do

you say? We could get drunk and earn money at the same time. That'd be

more fun than living with Nan!"

 

"Oh darling, how lovely! Do you suppose we really could buy it? No--

you're not serious, are you? I can see you aren't. But don't ever say you

aren't. Let's make plans about it, like you and Jim used to. He'd like us to

make plans, wouldn't he?"

 

"Sure he would.... Good night, Charley."

 

"Good night, Geo, my love--" As they embrace, she kisses him full on

the mouth. And suddenly sticks her tongue right in. She has done this before,

often. It's one of those drunken long shots which just might, at least

theoretically, once in ten thousand tries, throw a relationship right out of its

orbit and send it whizzing off on another. Do women ever stop trying? No.

But, because they never stop, they learn to be good losers. When, after a

 

suitable pause, he begins to draw back, she doesn't attempt to cling to him.

And now she accepts his going with no more resistance. He kisses her on the

forehead. She is like a child who has at last submitted to being tucked into

her cot.

 

"Sleep tight."

 

George turns, swings open the house door, takes one stride and--

oops!--very very nearly falls head first down the steps--all of them--oh, and,

unthinkably, much farther--ten, fifty, one hundred million feet into the

bottomless black night. Only his grip on the door handle saves him.

 

He turns groggily, with a punching heart, to grin back at Charlotte; but

luckily she has wandered away off somewhere. She hasn't seen him do this

asinine thing. Which is truly providential because, if she had seen him, she

would have insisted on his staying the night; which would have meant, well,

at the very least, such a late breakfast that it would have been brunch; which

would have meant more drinks; which would have meant siesta and supper,

and more and more and more drinks to follow... This has actually happened,

before now.

 

But this time he has escaped. And now he closes the house door with

the care of a burglar, sits himself down on the top step, takes a deep breath,

and gives himself a calm stern talking to. You are drunk. Oh, you stupid old

thing, how dare you get so drunk? Well, now, listen: We are going to walk

down those steps very slowly, and when we are at the bottom we are going

straight home and upstairs and right into bed, without even brushing our

teeth. All right, that's understood? Now, here we go....

 

WELL and good.

 

How to explain, then, that, with his foot actually on the bridge over

the creek, George suddenly turns, chuckles to himself, and with the

movement of a child wriggling free of a grownup--old guardian Cortex--runs

off down the road, laughing, toward the ocean?

 

As he trots out of Camphor Tree Lane on to Las Ondas, he sees the

round green porthole lights of The Starboard Side, down on the corner of the

ocean highway across from the beach, shining to welcome him.

 

The Starboard Side has been here since the earliest days of the colony.

Its bar, formerly a lunch counter, served the neighbors with their first post-

Prohibition beers, and the mirror behind it was sometimes honored by the

reflection of Tom Mix. But its finest hours came later. That summer of

1945! The war as good as over. The blackout no more than an excuse for

keeping the lights out at a gangbang. A sign over the bar said, "In case of a

direct hit, we close immediately." Which was meant to be funny, of course.

And yet, out across the bay, in deep water under the cliffs of Palos Verdes,

 

lay a real Japanese submarine full of real dead Japanese, depth-bombed after

they had sunk two or three ships in sight of the California coast.

 

You pushed aside the blackout curtain and elbowed your way through

a jam-packed bar crowd, scarcely able to breathe or see for smoke. Here, in

the complete privacy of the din and the crowd, you and your pickup yelled

the preliminary sex advances at each other. You could flirt but you couldn't

fight; there wasn't even room to smack someone's face. For that, you had to

one-night stands. And, though the charcoal remnants of those barbarian

orgy-fires have long since been ground into the sand, this stretch of the shore

is still filthy with trash; high-school gangs still daub huge scandalous words

on its beach-wall; and seashells are still less easy to find here than discarded

rubbers.

 

The glory has faded, too, from The Starboard Side; only a true

devotee like George can still detect even a last faint gleam of it. The place

has been stripped of its dusty marine trophies and yellow group photographs.

Right after the New Year it's to be what they dare to call redecorated: that's

to say, desecrated, in readiness for next summer's mob of blank-faced

strangers. Already there is a new jukebox; and a new television fixed high

up on the wall, so you can turn half right, rest your elbow on the bar and go

into a cow-daze, watching it. This is what most of the customers are doing,

as George enters.

 

He makes unsteadily but purposefully for his favorite little table in the

corner, from which the TV screen is invisible. At the table next to him, two

other unhypnotized nonconformists, an elderly couple who belong to the last

handful of surviving colonists, are practicing their way of love: a mild

quarrelsome alcoholism which makes it possible for them to live in a play-

relationship, like children. You old bag, you old prick, you old bitch, you old

bastard: rage without resentment, abuse without venom. This is how it will

be for them till the end. Let's hope they will never be parted, but die in the

same hour of the same night, in their beer-stained bed.

 

And now George's eyes move along the bar, stop on a figure seated

alone at the end nearest the door. The young man isn't watching the TV;

indeed, he is quite intent upon something he is writing on the back of an

envelope. As he writes, he smiles to himself and rubs the side of his large

nose with his forefinger. It is Kenny Potter.

 

At first, George doesn't move; seems hardly to react at all. But then a

slow intent smile parts his lips. He leans forward, watching Kenny with the

delight of a naturalist who has identified a rosy finch out of the high sierras

on a tree in a city park. After a minute he rises, crosses almost stealthily to

the bar and slips onto the stool beside Kenny.

 

 

"Hello, there," he says.

 

Kenny turns quickly, sees who it is, laughs loudly, crumples the

envelope and tosses it over the bar into a trash container. "Hello, sir."

 

"What did you do that for?"

 

"Oh. Nothing."

 

"I disturbed you. You were writing."

 

"It was nothing. Only a poem."

 

"And now it's lost to the world!"

 

"I'll remember it. Now I've written it down."

 

"Would you say it for me?"

 

This sends Kenny into convulsions of laughter. "It's crazy. It's"--he

gulps down his giggles--"it's a--a haiku!"

 

"Well, what's so crazy about a haiku?"

 

"I'd have to count the syllables first."

 

But Kenny obviously isn't going to count them now. So George says,

"I didn't expect to see you in this neck of the woods. Don't you live over on

the other side of town, near campus?"

 

"That's right. Only sometimes I like to get way away from there."

 

"But imagine your happening to pick on this particular bar!"

 

"Oh, that was because one of the kids told me you're in here a lot."

 

"You mean, you came out here to see me?" Perhaps George says this a

little too eagerly. Anyhow, Kenny shrugs it off with a teasing smile.

 

"I thought I'd see what kind of a joint it was."

 

"It's nothing now. It used to be quite something, though. And I've

gotten accustomed to coming here. You see, I live very close."

 

"Camphor Tree Lane?"

 

"How in the world did you know that?"

 

"Is it supposed to be a secret?"

 

"Why no--of course not! I have students come over to see me now and

then. I mean, about their work--" George is immediately aware that this

sounds defensive and guilty as hell. Has Kenny noticed? He is grinning; but

then he has been grinning all the time. George adds, rather feebly, "You

seem to know an awful lot about me and my habits. A lot more than I know

about any of you--"

 

"There isn't much to know about us, I guess!" Kenny gives him a

teasing, challenging look. "What would you like to know about us, sir?"

 

"Oh, I'll think of something. Give me time. Say, what are you

drinking?"

 

"Nothing!" Kenny giggles. "He hasn't even noticed me yet." And,

indeed, the bartender is absorbed in a TV wrestling match.

 

 

"Well, what'll you have?"

 

"What are you having, sir?"

 

"Scotch."

 

"Okay," Kenny says, in a tone which suggests that he would have

agreed just as readily to buttermilk. George calls the bartender--very loudly,

so he can't pretend not to have heard--and orders. The bartender, always a bit

of a bitch, demands to see Kenny's I. D. So they go through all of that.

George says stuffily to the bartender, "You ought to know me by this time.

Do you really think I'd be such an idiot as to try to buy drinks for a minor?"

 

"We have to check," says the bartender, through a skin inches thick.

He turns his back on them and moves away. George feels a brief spurt of

powerless rage. He has been made to look like an ass--and in front of Kenny,

too.

 

While they are waiting for the drinks, he asks, "How did you get here?

In your car?"

 

"I don't have one. Lois drove me."

 

"Where is she now, then?"

 

"Gone home, I guess."

 

George senses something not quite in order. But, whatever it is,

Kenny doesn't seem worried about it. He adds vaguely, "I thought I'd walk

around for a while."

 

"But how'll you get back?"

 

"Oh, I'll manage."

 

(A voice inside George says, You could invite him to stay the night at

your place. Tell him you'll drive him back in the morning. What in hell do

you think I am? George asks it. It was merely a suggestion, says the voice.)

 

The drinks arrive. George says to Kenny, "Look, why don't we sit

over there, at the table in the corner? That damned television keeps catching

my eye."

 

"All right."

 

It would be fun, George thinks, if the young were just a little less

passive. But that's too much to ask. You have to play it their way, or not at

all. As they take their chairs, facing each other, George says, "I've still got

my pencil sharpener," and, bringing it out of his pocket, he tosses it down on

the table, as though shooting craps.

 

Kenny laughs. "I already lost mine!"

 

 

AND now an hour, maybe, has passed. And they are both drunk: Kenny

fairly, George very. But George is drunk in a good way, and one that he

seldom achieves. He tries to describe to himself what this kind of

drunkenness is like. Well--to put it very crudely--it's like Plato; it's a

dialogue. A dialogue between two people. Yes, but not a Platonic dialogue

in the hair-splitting, word-twisting, one-up-to-me sense; not a mock-humble

bitching match; not a debate on some dreary set theme. You can talk about

anything and change the subject as often as you like. In fact, what really

matters is not what you talk about, but the being together in this particular

relationship. George can't imagine having a dialogue of this kind with a

woman, because women can only talk in terms of the personal. A man of his

own age would do, if there was some sort of polarity; for instance, if he was

a Negro. You and your dialogue-partner have to be somehow opposites.

Why? Because you have to be symbolic figures--like, in this case, Youth and

Age. Why do you have to be symbolic? Because the dialogue is by its nature

impersonal. It's a symbolic encounter. It doesn't involve either party

personally. That's why, in a dialogue, you can say absolutely anything. Even

the closest confidence, the deadliest secret, comes out objectively as a mere

metaphor or illustration which could never be used against you.

 

George would like to explain all of this to Kenny. But it is so

complicated, and he doesn't want to run the risk of finding that Kenny can't

understand him. More than anything, he wants Kenny to understand, wants

to be able to believe that Kenny knows what this dialogue is all about. And

really, at this moment, it seems possible that Kenny does know. George can